Earth and the Stars and the Love in Between
by RavenclawGenius
Summary: Supercat: Cat Grant has many expectations, she realizes, and certainly more than most - but of Supergirl, does she expect too much?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note:_ This is my first Supergirl story, and I really haven't read much of this fandom yet, so I'm honestly just fleshing out characters right now. This is the first part of a two-shot. I have about eight thousand unfinished stories right now and no promises of when I'm going to update any of them (this one included), so for those of you waiting on other updates, I'm very sorry, but I write when and what I feel like writing, and for the moment, this happens to be it. Please don't hate me for that, because if I could, I would certainly change it, both for you, and for myself. If it helps, though, interest in the story definitely motivates me to try a little bit harder for it, so if you're enjoying this piece (or any of my others) I read all the reviews/comments and I definitely take them to heart!

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 _Do I expect too much?_

It isn't a consideration that Cat Grant often, if ever, allows herself to spare. In fact, it isn't typically a consideration that the Queen of All Media can even afford to spare. Not for anyone, not even for herself.

 _Especially_ not for herself.

Cat Grant has many expectations, she realizes, and certainly more than most. She expects the world to turn, and she expects for it to thrive, in spite of – or perhaps even because of – the creeping shadows that lurk around all of those frightening corners which so many avoid and refuse to ever question. She expects for most of the people who inhabit this world – _her_ world; _their_ world – to carry out their horribly mundane existences performing at equally mundane standards.

But of the people Cat surrounds herself with, of the people she employs, Cat expects more than the mundane. Of these people, Cat expects the _extraordinary_ , though she is often, still, left unimpressed.

Cat expects the people around her to hold themselves to the same high principles that she constantly strives to enforce upon herself, and she expects this of them not to be a coldhearted tyrant as is so frequently believed, but because she _must_ expect this of them. She expects this of them because this company, her empire, it is more than just her life's work; CatCo is more than an admirable achievement, it is more than the awards that line her office walls. Quite simply, CatCo is power – it is _Cat Grant's_ power – and if her employees do not conform to her standards then it is power that is lost upon them all.

Because the thing about power, Cat realizes where few others are capable, is that it is so easily corrupted, and that corruption often has so little to do with intent. Because of course power can be abused in blatant ways – Maxwell Lord has proven this true more than once – but it is the subtler ways that truly _matter,_ the ways that manifest as the undeliberate casualties.

Cat Grant can manipulate the public into practically anything, anything at all, with nothing more than a few carefully crafted words. Cat Grant can ruin lives, destroy cities, topple entire governments with the information that she wields, but she is intelligent enough to know better than that. What is often forgotten, though – the little people, the lives caught in the crosshairs of even unearthing that information, those secrets, even when she chooses not to publically release it – is half of the battle with the kind of power Cat Grant wields.

She expects the people in her immediate vicinity to be ambitious, but not cruel. She expects her employees to be driven, but _aware._ Cat expects her employees to seek truth in all that they do, but more than anything – more than a story, more than a Pulitzer or an Emmy – Cat wants for them to be _concerned._ She expects their concern to provide boundaries, limits to what they are willing to do to achieve that which they desire, because Cat–

Cat's own boundaries can be tricked, they are at times questionable, and she does not trust them. There are few things she relies upon other people for, but in this, Cat has little choice.

Because Cat Grant is _too_ ambitious, _too_ driven, and concepts like cruelty and awareness and, most importantly, concern tend to slip away from her when they are needed most – and because of this, Supergirl has become something of a saving grace, for Cat.

Superman can fight for truth and justice and the American way over in that other city and be impressive, but it is a city Cat Grant has a particularly strong hatred for, and she focuses less on Superman's deeds than on the reporters fortunate enough to share his home, and his stories. Supergirl, though… Supergirl is _hers,_ she is _Cat's_ , and she belongs to National City. In reporting on her, naming her, championing for her, Cat is forced to evaluate all that Supergirl truly _is_.

And Supergirl is a wonder. She is a wonder who inspires Cat, but not for the reasons most would believe.

She is heroic, obviously, but despite her alien nature, she is eerily _human,_ to Cat, in ways that she hadn't anticipated a superhero might be. She makes herself vulnerable to emotion instead of steeling herself against it, appeals to people and thrives from their care for her in a way that is not conceited, but in a way that proves her love for this city and makes her reliant upon their affection in return.

Supergirl makes herself reflect on all the things she could have done better, or differently, to benefit the people of National City the most, and that is admirable, even to Cat Grant. Because Supergirl had started out her heroism in this city fumblingly, she had still been _learning,_ and from all that Cat has observed, she does not believe that Supergirl will ever truly _stop_ learning, simply because she cares enough to try.

So when Supergirl tells her that she is lost, when she stands at Cat's side on that balcony the night that Myriad is activated and confesses that her mother had once faced a similar choice and had subsequently chosen wrong, Cat is not surprised. She is not surprised that even in spite of Supergirl's apparent love for her mother, the superhero is still trying to learn from her, still trying to mine from the past to find her answer now.

And, inexplicably, Cat Grant thinks of her assistant. Cat Grant thinks of her sweet, eager-to-please Kara, who is so startlingly naïve for a woman of her age. She thinks of Kara, who had once defied even Cat's inarguable power just to reunite the media mogul with her lost son, to soothe Cat Grant's greatest regret, simply because she could, simply because she had cared enough to risk her job, her financial stability, her own emotional security solely to ensure her employer's happiness.

There is hope in that, Cat believes now. There is hope in the risk Kara had taken, and it had motivated Cat to be brave, to be brave like Kara, and to take a risk of her own. And Cat had met with Adam, had built something – something tentative, but something with boundless potential – and it had been all in thanks to her much too caring assistant.

Kara inspires hope in Cat in ways that no other has ever been able, had inspired it that day, even, and it is that – that feeling which had reminded her so much of Supergirl, and the kind of blinding hope that she offers to this city – which had prompted Cat not to fire the girl on the spot.

And Cat knows – she cannot prove it, but in that moment she _knows_ – that they are the same. She knows that Supergirl and Kara are one, no matter what tricks had been played upon her beliefs to convince her otherwise, because no one else truly forces Cat to look into the depths of her own heart the way that only the two of them are able. And so she purposefully lets slip that Supergirl had inspired her to become that person, for Kara; she lets Supergirl believe that it had been her heroics, her symbol, her impact upon Cat – just one, small, albeit powerful, person – which had driven the Queen of All Media to let Kara, her sweet Kiera, breach the professional line and merge into the personal.

It is a lie, because it has little to do with Supergirl and everything to do with the complete contradiction of a girl so fearlessly bold and simultaneously, preciously caring and shy as Kara has proven herself to be, but right now, that has nothing to do with Cat's point.

Because Supergirl – _Kara_ – needs to hear it. She needs to hear that Cat has been affected by her effort, and she needs to be reminded of the little people, the people who will be caught in the crosshairs and whose lives will be ended if she follows through with Max Lord's plan.

Cat is not often placed in the position of acting as a conscience, she surrounds herself with more extraordinary people who will act as that in her stead, but for Supergirl – for Kara – Cat can strive to be better. She can push her own high standards just that little bit higher, and she can be _more,_ because that is what Kiera makes her.

Kiera makes her _more_ , because Supergirl – Kara, Kiera, or whatever she calls herself – is more than any human can be, and it is not because of her power, or her strength, but because of her unfailing heart and her constant desire to _learn_ to be better.

But Cat wonders, again – _always,_ with this girl – if she expects too much. She wonders if this is too much to place on one girl's shoulders, superhero or no, _alien_ or no, because it is not fair. Nothing about this is fair, and with the darker whisperings of Max Lord in her ear, Cat can easily understand why having a plan – any plan, even this one – could be tempting. Still, there must be another way, even if Cat cannot immediately call one to mind.

People will die, with Max's plan, but not nearly as many as Surpergirl will save. It is the right thing, Cat supposes, if considered in a certain light, but it is still so very, very wrong, and if Cat can see that where Supergirl cannot, then something must be changed.

So she tells Kara to have hope. She reminds Supergirl of the _importance_ of hope, reminds her of all the hope that she has given not only to National City, but also just to Cat, and she hopes that it means something.

And it does.

It gives Supergirl an idea.


	2. Chapter 2

In the aftermath, Cat actively displays a strict business-as-usual air, struts into her office and demands her latte of Kara in the same no-nonsense manner as usual, because if she does not, Cat fears what she might expose. Her assistant has made it clear that she intends to keep this secret – her identity, her heritage, her _calling_ – away from Cat and the potential destructiveness of her media empire, and if that is Supergirl's only wish, after everything she gives for both National City and the world, then who is Cat Grant to deprive her of it?

A secret place in Cat's heart aches with the realization, though there is admittedly a partly journalistic urge just to confirm what, in her heart, Cat already knows; still, and more importantly, there is a simple but growing desire just to hear Kara tell her.

Cat yearns inexplicably but undeniably only to be _trusted_ with Kara's secrets, but there are some places – though few in number – where even Cat Grant realizes she oughtn't tread. And yet, Cat knows, her boundaries cannot be trusted, and it is proven to her once again.

Because how can she possibly be meant to pretend that she does not know? How can Cat possibly deny the terror that invades her senses when her sweet Kiera earnestly imparts upon Cat the most meaningful and grateful goodbye that the media mogul has ever heard? When Kara unexpectedly departs from her desk at CatCo that very same day only to appear again, hours later, in full Supergirl regalia to do exactly as she'd always promised? How can she respect the limits Kara has set to Cat's knowledge when Supergirl, airing across every news station in the country, launches an entire spaceship outside of the atmosphere and sacrifices everything she is for the world she has sworn to protect? For a world that isn't even her own? For a world which has mistrusted her, rejected her, still forgiven her, but has never – could have never – understood her? How can Cat _not_ reveal what she knows when her body betrays her so spectacularly, when it gives her every fleeting fear away? When her fingers shake and her heart hammers and no measure of bourbon, no matter the vintage, can possibly relieve the kind of panic and devastation that settles so viscerally beneath Cat Grant's paling skin?

Not even Supergirl can survive the void of nothingness in space, where there is no air and no gravity and clearly no protection of a spaceship to save her, to bring her back to Cat, to the place where her Kiera _belongs._

It is the longest night of Cat Grant's life, and she does not know how she drags trembling bones and grieving red eyes into work the following morning, but she does. It is not business-as-usual – nothing is business-as-usual, will never be business-as-usual again, because Cat's _usual_ is gone – and there is a falter in her step that hasn't presented itself since Cat's early teens, but Cat strides forward, despite it. For Kara, and in memory of the unspoken agreement that Supergirl never meant for Cat to know, Cat strides forward to maintain her act of ignorance, the way Kara had always wanted.

Grudgingly and mournfully, Cat strides on Jimmy Choos wobbling beneath unsteady knees into her private elevator. Her head remains low, eyes kept dry only through an infinite force of will and firmly glued to the heartbreaking headlines streaming across the screen of her iPhone, and Cat Grant does everything in her power during the short ride up to prepare herself for the chasm of emptiness that will greet her, just outside her elevator doors.

Because her sweet Kiera, Cat knows, will not be in the office that day.

There will be no latte to demand. No shy, approval-seeking presence to hover above Cat's desk eagerly awaiting the media Queen's forthcoming mandate. There will be no slim, beautifully blonde-topped frame to orbit around Cat's own in faithful, constant desire to satisfy Cat's every need. There will be no Kara Danvers, no Sunny Danvers crinkle-eyed smile to ease the stress of Cat Grant's morning, no quiet scribbling of nonsensical notes as Cat prattles off a list of tasks for her assistant to complete that day.

Cat's sweet Kiera will not be there, she knows, because Supergirl is dead. She must be dead. There is no other conclusion, no failsafe Cat can think of, no possible way that Kara could have survived. There had been no escape, no hope for–

"Your latte, Miss Grant."

And Cat's head startles upward, jaw momentarily slack and eyes abruptly wet in disbelief, a soft puff of breath expelling from her lungs in a quivering simulation of Kara's name, or at least of the one Cat has given to her.

" _Kiera."_

It only lasts a second before Cat jars into realization and blinks, before she gathers herself and stiffens her shoulders and clears her throat. It happens quickly enough that the grateful murmur and blessedly relieved reaction can't be noticed – noticed by anyone but Kara – and a gravelly, forced demand grits around urgently clipped teeth and a powerfully clenched jaw.

"In my office, Kiera," she orders.

Kara's eyes widen, her hips shuffle briefly as if she is unsure if it is best for her to move closer or back away, as far as she possibly can, and Cat Grant forgets everything she's ever known about boundaries, because she will not let this abruptly terrified girl escape from her again.

She won't. Cat refuses.

" _Now,"_ she hisses compellingly, and Kara nods instantly like a particularly emphatic bobblehead, stepping into Cat before she even realizes the command she is following.

Cat moves swiftly, and with a feigned confidence. She marches into her office, throws her Prada bag and her perfectly hot – always perfectly hot – latte onto the surface of her desk, and moves onto the balcony with an expectant, but crumbling expression over her left shoulder which demands that Kara follow.

And Kara does.

Cat's fists clench, release, and clench again. Kara eyes her warily, her tablet lowering hesitantly until she rests both it and the notepad she always carries against the small table on Cat's balcony to free her hands. She reaches tentative palms to embrace Cat's biceps, trembling beneath the weight of Cat's shuddering shoulders, and Cat's body awakens with a renewed desperation, the strength of which she has never before encountered.

Her fingers wrap over Kara's vividly blushing cheeks, stroke along her neck to find a hard, quickening pulse, tangle and weave and fist into preciously soft blonde hair. She pulls – sharper than she means to, but Cat cannot bring herself to care – and an unbidden sob washes over her young assistant's cheek as Cat tugs her down to press her forehead into Kara Danvers' temple.

"I thought I'd lost you," Cat tells her through a wet, strangled whisper.

And Kara does not deny it. She does not discredit Cat's knowledge, or try in vain to convince her that she has, once again, mistaken her assistant for someone she is not.

Instead, Kara tightens her grip harder over Cat's arms, digs her nail into Cat's flesh like she is reaffirming her presence, like she is providing a tether to the world and making Cat her own. Kara holds tight and doesn't let go, shaking her head gently against Cat's with a crushing sigh that breathes of regret.

"Miss Grant– " She stutters, and breaks beautifully. "Oh, Cat, I'm okay. I'm alright, I promise. I wish you'd said– I wish you'd _told me_ that you knew," Kara pleads with a past that cannot be changed. "I would have called, I would have made sure that you knew, Cat, I swear," she vows desperately. "Rao, I would have– "

But Cat does not care. She does not care what Kara would have done, about what either of them _could have_ done, and she cares least of all for Kara's apologies.

"Supergirl's loss," Cat cries as softly as she can manage, "would have shattered this city – but the loss of _you_ , my sweet Kiera… that would have shattered _me,_ I assure you."

It is an unbelievably messy affair, the kiss that happens next. It is a blur of lips and grasping fingers and searching tongues, and it does not matter that Cat doesn't know where it spawns from, only that Kara – her sweet Kiera – is _here_. She is real and solid and so very much _alive_ , her heartbeat driving beneath Cat's fingers, flattening urgently over Kara's chest just to feel it beat harder. The proof of her life throbs violently under Cat's devoted touch, and Kara's tears splash unendingly across their trembling, frantic mouths where they mingle with Cat's own.

And, inexplicably, Cat thinks of the first time she'd met Kara Danvers. She thinks 'ordinary,' and Cat scoffs into Kara's mouth. She thinks 'hard-working' and snarls at the purely understated phrase as she bites bruises into Kara's quivering jaw. She suddenly remembers 'want to be useful,' and slows her pace dramatically, instantly, panting into salt-ridden, slickened skin, and slots all of the mental pieces of the puzzle of Kara Danvers into place.

Because all Kara's ever wanted is to be useful, and she is – _always,_ she is – but how often is she told? How often is _Kara Danvers_ – not Supergirl, but Cat's _Kiera_ – actually told how useful, how very _good_ she is? How she has taken every great expectation Cat has had of an assistant, of a hero, of the world, and how she has surpassed them all? How she has become the standard that Cat herself publically influences National City to reach for?

Supergirl thrives on the affection for her city and the love that its people give back to her, but – Cat knows, and now has proof – Kara Danvers and Supergirl are one. Cat's sweet Kiera shares in those same needs, shares in the need for a love that is both given and accepted without consequence or limitation.

Cat has neglected that need for as long as she has had Kara, for as long as she has known her, and it is wrong – it is _unjust_ – and it requires Cat Grant's immediate attention. Because this is Cat's second chance to do right by her Kiera, and she will not squander it.

So Cat slows everything.

She slows, and she rests her mouth at Kara's cheek, palm slinking soothingly up and down the line of Kara's spine, holding her neck firmly in place with its opposite, thumb pressing too hard, too firmly into the soft give of flesh beneath her young assistant's ear.

"You kept us safe," Cat swallows thickly and promises. "You saved us all, my Kiera," she sighs hotly, but trembling. Trembling from fingertips to toes and in every space in between. "You were so selfless," she swears devoutly. "You were so good. You were such a good girl," she praises through a scraping whisper, but Cat underestimates the effect of her words.

Kara falls into her with a quiet sob of unmistakable gratitude, breasts molding into Cat's and fingers cinching bruisingly over silk to catch in the small divots of Cat's slim hips. She shakes, nearly as violently as Cat does, too, and it is all Cat can do to slip her wandering palm to Kara's thighs, nails scraping roughly as the back of her knuckles bunch Kara's tight pencil skirt into a savage, wrinkled disaster.

Cat doesn't register surprise at the dampness that greets her between Kara's legs - not then. Not until long after their encounter is finished. In that moment, Cat synchronizes with Kara's needs the way Kara has always done with hers, learns exactly how Kara had attuned so perfectly to all of Cat's desires in the past. She feels the pace of Kara's breath and knows exactly what she wants, feels the stammer of her heart and knows the vastness of its depths, feels the tremble of her fingertips and knows Kara's limitless strength.

And Cat doesn't bother to tease, doesn't care to be slow, because she knows that as much as it is Kara's first instinct to comfort, to satisfy, to be _useful,_ all she truly needs to be is _taken._ To be adored. To be worshipped – _loved_ – in the same way, the _only_ way, that Kara knows how to love in return.

Kara needs to be loved hard. Fast. Urgently. Unendingly. Kara needs to be loved with force, with abandon, with someone's whole entire heart – and Cat has her whole entire heart to offer, jaded and cynical as it might once have been, healed now by the affection of National City's greatest prize. By its hero.

So she takes Kara the way that she needs, with three fingers swept beneath the line of cotton panties on the balcony of Cat's office, at the very height of CatCo, at the very height of Cat Grant's power, and when Kara crumbles against her with a sharp cry and an instant slackening of every once-strained muscle in her body, Cat swears that _this_ power – the power to wreck this very, very Super girl – is a power she could never abuse.


End file.
